


Stupid

by ectothermal



Series: baby teeth [4]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Feminization, Humiliation, M/M, Spanking, Stiles Stilinski is a Winchester, Verbal Humiliation, idk what to say for myself here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectothermal/pseuds/ectothermal
Summary: “Daddy,” he gasps, and then again, louder: “Daddy!” Peter sets his drink down with lightning-fast reflexes to avoid getting it knocked out of his hand as Stiles lifts his arms to wave; Daddy looks over for a moment before recognition spreads across his face, quickly followed by confusion. By the time he reaches Peter and Stiles, it’s somehow morphed to anger, jaw set tight and brow heavy over his eyes.“Stiles, get down right now.”





	Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> writing this is the first time ive ever felt shame

The bar is loud. 

Most bars are, and Stiles has been inside more than he can count; Dean and Sam got too old to go in with Daddy before long, but Stiles easily had a place on Daddy’s lap, too young for anyone to be suspicious of sneaking sips of his father’s whiskey. Stiles remembers coming back to the car more than once to find his brothers on separate bench seats, breathing heavy with messy hair, rumpled jackets, and bright red mouths. Before, he thought they’d gotten in a fight. Sucker-punched each other right on the mouth. His ears flush with the sudden realization of how wrong he’d been.

The door swings shut, heavy but silent, behind him. It’s dim and smoky inside, the floor made of uneven, creaking wood; rock music blares over the speakers, and the steady murmur of concurrent conversations melds together with it until Stiles can’t understand any words at all. The bar is taller than he is, and he walks behind the row of stools, craning his neck to see if any of the men sat on them is his Daddy.

As he reaches the end of the bar, his heart sinks, anxiety starting to churn in the pit of his stomach; his Daddy’s deep rumble and the strong line of his jaw are unmistakable, and Stiles had caught no glimpse of either. His brow crumples in confusion and frustration, and he backs himself into a corner with a dustpan and broom propped against it to try and see the whole bar at once. Maybe Dean was wrong. Maybe Daddy isn’t here at all. Stiles didn’t see the car on his walk in.

Maybe Dean lied to him on purpose.

It’s a mean thought, and Stiles regrets thinking it as soon as it occurs to him, but the possibility twists in his guts and makes him feel a little sick. Ever since Stiles saw Daddy hit him, his oldest brother seemed somehow colder than his previous distant indifference. 

“Are you lost, little one?” Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice that seems to come out of nowhere, soft but impossibly close to his ear. His head whips around until he comes face to face with the source - a tall, handsome man with sharp, downturned blue eyes is knelt down beside him, head tilted to the side in question. “Sorry,” he laughs softly, holding up his hands, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m—I’m looking for my daddy,” Stiles gasps, heart beating wildly from his scare. He clutches the front of his hoodie, fingers twisted tight in the fabric as he fights to calm his breathing, to slow down. The man reaches out to gently squeeze his shoulders.

“Is he here?” he asks.

“My brother said so,” says Stiles. He feels a little foolish, still, like he’s been duped, and he avoids the nice man’s eyes, staring resolutely down at his shoes and chewing on his lip.

“Well, alright,” the man says. “Why don’t you come and sit with me and see if we can find him from higher up, huh?” He offers his hand; Stiles glances sideways at it, and up at the man, before he nods.

“Okay. Thanks,” he says. He follows the man back to his seat at the bar, lifts his elbows away from his sides so that the man can hoist him up by his underarms to sit on his lap.

“What’s your name, kiddo?” he asks once he has Stiles situated comfortably, one hand locked firmly around his waist to keep him from toppling; he holds his drink casually in his other hand, scanning across the bar, but after a moment, he sets it down, dropping his hand to rest on Stiles’ knee.

“Stiles.” 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Stiles. I’m Peter,” he says, lifting his hand from his knee to hold out to shake; Stiles finds it a little silly, but he shakes Peter’s hand anyway, a small, nervous smile making a brief appearance on his face. Peter smiles warmly in return, then turns to watch the bar again; Stiles does the same, twisting a little in Peter’s grasp to try and see better. It feels familiar. It feels just like sitting with Daddy and watching the other people, whispering jokes into Daddy’s collar to see if he can feel the way his chuckle vibrates through his chest. 

It’s easier to see faces from his seat on Peter’s lap, and Stiles zeroes in on one familiar one leaving the bathroom.

“Daddy,” he gasps, and then again, louder: “Daddy!” Peter sets his drink down with lightning-fast reflexes to avoid getting it knocked out of his hand as Stiles lifts his arms to wave; Daddy looks over for a moment before recognition spreads across his face, quickly followed by confusion. By the time he reaches Peter and Stiles, it’s somehow morphed to anger, jaw set tight and brow heavy over his eyes. 

“Stiles, get down right now.”

“Daddy—” he says, but Daddy snaps his fingers; he’s not even looking at Stiles, he realizes as he slides off of Peter’s lap and onto his feet, but staring daggers directly into Peter’s cool, blue gaze.

“You keep your fuckin’ hands off my son,” he murmurs, barely loud enough to hear, but it runs a chill down Stiles’ spine all the same.

“Daddy, he was just helping—”

“Stiles!” Daddy’s hand wraps tightly around his wrist, tugging him back behind his legs. “We’re leaving.” Daddy turns, dragging Stiles toward the door; Stiles looks over his shoulder, wide-eyed in confusion, to catch Peter waving goodbye before Daddy tugs him outside.

Daddy’s pace is fast, his stride heavy and powerful; Stiles grabs onto Daddy’s wrist with his free hand as he runs to catch up, afraid of tripping on the uneven asphalt of the parking lot.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” he pants as they come to a stop beside the Impala.

“Knock it off,” Daddy snaps, unlocking the door and dragging Stiles into the car; Stiles scoots to the far side of the bench, knees pulled to his chest as he leans against the passenger door. Daddy pulls the door shut hard enough to make Stiles flinch, turns the key in the ignition with frustrated rigor; once the engine turns over and starts purring, he takes a moment to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. “Why the hell are you even here, Stiles?”

“Dean said I should come look for you,” Stiles mumbles into his knees, fishing for his hoodie strings to draw into his mouth. Daddy sighs heavy before lifting his head, and Stiles glances over at him from his makeshift corner. “Am I in trouble?”

“You bet your ass you’re in trouble,” Daddy says, and he puts the car in gear and pulls out of the parking lot.

\---

At home, Stiles stands in the middle of the living room, the heel of one shoe stomping hard on the toe of the other while he waits for Daddy to set his keys down, to hang up his jacket. It reminds him too much of watching Dean and Daddy fight before they left, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight as he grinds his heel down, mouth twisting with effort until the pain lights white pools in the darkness behind his eyes.

“Come here, Stiles. The hell are you doing?” Daddy’s voice sparks him out of his distraction, and he blinks through the light in the living room to find Daddy waiting, sat right in the center of the couch. Slowly, he walks forward until he’s standing pigeon-toed in front of Daddy’s knees.

“Nothing,” he says, voice muted and quiet as he stares at the space between Daddy’s feet. “Just waiting.” 

Daddy seems to not know what to say in response, but he grabs Stiles’ upper arm and hauls him over his lap, delivering his first smack in the same motion.

“Are you stupid, Stiles? Are you fucking stupid?” he asks, punctuating the swear with another sharp slap right on Stiles’ ass; it stings even through the denim of his jeans, and Stiles shoves his face into the couch cushion as he cries out. “You think some perv at the bar is gonna sit a kid like you on his _lap_ like some pretty little slut out of the goodness of his fucking heart? You think he was trying to _help_ you?” Daddy lays into a fast rhythm, barely a pause between smacks until Stiles is sobbing a deep wet spot of both tears and spit into the couch cushion, legs kicking and hands reaching back to try and block Daddy’s hands. Daddy grabs his wrists, twisting them together behind his back in one big fist. With his other hand, he tugs at the back of Stiles’ jeans—loose, weathered hand-me-downs—and Stiles panics.

“No—Daddy, don’t—” he gasps, wriggling hard to try and tip himself off Daddy’s lap, out of his grasp, something, but his Daddy is too strong. Stiles can feel bruises forming where his bones dig into each other under his Daddy’s firm grip, pressing him down against his lap as he pulls Stiles’ jeans down his thighs. 

A quiet settles over his father, a stillness that he doesn’t dare break; for a moment the only sound between the two of them is Stiles’ shuddering breaths.

“Stiles, what the hell is this?” Daddy asks, voice low, like the voice he’d threatened Peter with. Like the voice he used with Dean. “Where did you get these?” He snaps the delicate elastic waist of Stiles’ underwear—pale pink cotton panties. Stiles shakes his head, smashing his nose into the couch, still trying to squirm off of Daddy’s lap; Daddy lays a hit hard enough into the backs of his thighs to make him shout. “ _Answer_ me, Stiles.”

“Sam!” Stiles blurts, breathing hard through the stinging of his thighs, the rough burn of the upholstery against his tender, swollen eyes. “Sam, Sam gave them to me, I’m sorry, Daddy, please,” he babbles, hiccuping sobs heaving through his words; Daddy smacks him right on his reddened ass once more before dumping him off his lap onto the floor. Stiles flails, landing hard on his back, the impact rattling through his bones and aching deep in the yet-to-be-formed bruises on his butt. He lays there, still, grappling for control over his breath and his tears, as Daddy kneels over him, foot braced under his butt and shin pinning him down all the way up his body. With the weight of his knee right on his sternum, Stiles can barely breathe, and both his hands fly up to try and push it off of him.

“Look at me,” Daddy says, grabbing Stiles’ chin hard and pressing his his head down into the threadbare rug. “You let your brother dress you up like this? Like a little girl?” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, pulling his chin into his neck in an attempt to wrest his face from Daddy’s grip; Daddy lets him go only to sharply smack his cheek. Fresh tears break loose, rolling down Stiles’ cheeks and into his ears, and spit bubbles between his lips with a renewed sob. He draws his hands up to cover his face, but Daddy snatches his wrists before he can.

He leans in close, pinning Stiles’ hands to the floor; his breath feels hot on Stiles’ temple when he speaks. “Don’t think that I can’t feel your hard little dick under my knee right now, either,” he rumbles. “You like that Sammy makes you do that, huh? You like getting smacked around? You like strange old men giving you attention? Or are you just the dumbest fucking kid in the world?”

“Please stop,” Stiles croaks, head rolling from side to side in a lackluster attempt at shaking his head ‘no’. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m just stupid, I’m _stupid, please.”_

Daddy lets him up, pushing up off his knee with a groan. Stiles curls up, rolling onto his side and clutching his arms around his head as his Daddy’s shadow looms over him.

“You’re grounded,” Daddy says. “You don’t leave this house except to go to school, you hear me?” Stiles nods, jerky and fast.

“Yes, Daddy.”


End file.
